The full deed came by email at nine-fifteen the next morning.
I read it in the studio with the door locked and the blinds down. It was six pages long. The first page was the standard grantor-grantee language. The second page was the legal description, and it included a line I had not seen before:
"Together with a perpetual easement over the strip of land between the stone wall and the existing fence, for the purpose of access to the water and maintenance of the dune."
A perpetual easement.
The strip of land did not belong to my mother. But my mother had the right to use it, forever, and so did anyone who owned her parcel after her. The fence could stay. The grass could stay. The studio could stay, because the easement covered "any structure existing at the time of conveyance."
The stu
